The Verdict

Cane-iac's Smack Stick SR

It took a few weeks, but Ron finally noticed the red Smack Stick hanging on the wall rack of paddles.

"I don't think I've used this one before," he said.

"No. It's been hiding in a drawer for a while. I wasn't sure about using it," I replied as I undressed.

"Well, you'll find out soon," he smiled and smacked the stick against his hand.

He warmed me up with a couple of light leather paddles, but then cam the stick.

"Ow! That feels like a club!" I gasped.

"It feels like one to me too," Ron replied, and applied the stick with lighter strokes, but it still hurt a lot.

Chuckie, out neighbour's dog, was outside, and he's the type of dog that just barks for no reason. Not the excited "I see a squirrel!" bark, or the bored,  flat "Let me in" bark, but a continuous, monotonous noise common to small, yappy dogs.

Ron mused, "I wonder if Chuckie can hear us. We can hear him." The window was open.

"Ow! Maybe--ow!"

The smacks suddenly slowed down. "I'm keeping time with his barks," Ron explained. Oh, very creative.

Ron cycled through the implements he had chosen, and after a while my bottom became numb and the smack stick didn't hurt nearly as much, although it was still nasty when it connected with my upper thighs. I suspect it will stay in our arsenal and come out occasionally.

The next morning I could still feel the sting, which is unusual for me. I normally don't have any after effects, except in the shower. But that morning I was very glad that I wouldn't be sitting on any hard chairs or benches.

I leave it up to you whether you dare visit Cane-iac and order one.

Doubts

All day I had been thinking that a spanking wouldn't happen, but boy, was I wrong!

Let me explain. The day before had been our usual day for a spanking date. As the time approached, we were watching an episode of Blue Murder, a British crime series starring Caroline Quentin.  I am a big fan of the Doc Martin series, and had scoured the internet for other shows starring Martin Clunes. That led me to Men Behaving Badly, in which Quentin played Clunes' long-suffering girlfriend. I thought the shows were rather silly but watched them all anyway. Quentin has also appeared in a few Doc Martin episodes as a homeopathic veterinarian who usually requires medical attention from the good doctor.

Anyway, we were engrossed in the television show, and neither of us made a move to stop when the usual time came. I thought that all too often I was the one to make the first move, and decided I would wait for Ron to say "It's time". He stayed silent and still, so we continued with the program.

The next day I told myself that Ron was probably tired of spanking me and wasn't going to suggest a make-up date.  I wouldn't mention it either and that would be the end on spanking for us. The negative thoughts fluttered in my mind all day. In the late afternoon, Ron was watching American football on tv in the livingroom, as he always does on Sundays during the season. I was reading and the dogs had been fed and were sleeping beside him. Then the game ended.

"Do you want your whuppin' before we go downstairs?" Ron asked, using his favourite term for spanking.

I was nonplussed. "What a question!" I laughed. "You're ten minutes early! Really?"

Ron said he meant it, and soon the dogs were tucked away in their crates and Ron was choosing the day's implements. One of them was my very least favourite: a leather flyswatter studded with rivets. Even when used gently it packed quite a wallop. That day Ron made up for the previous day's missed opportunity.

"It's riveting!" he chuckled as he applied the leather flyswatter to my posterior.

I never should have doubted his commitment.

Gotta cut it short

Yesterday Ron had a phone call from an old friend whom he hadn't seen for a while. He had promised me a spanking in the afternoon and it was almost time, but I figured I'd be off the hook since he would want to catch up on all the news with his pal. So Ron took the call in his study and I amused myself with a game on the iPad.

I kept one eye on the clock, watching the minutes slowly progress toward the appointed time. He'd probably be on the phone for at least another half hour, I told myself. I became absorbed in my game and was startled to hear Ron's footsteps on the stairs. One glance at the clock told me that he had not forgotten his promise to me.

"I cut it short," I heard Ron explain. "I said I had to give you a spanking."

Wait, what? I turned around and looked at him. His expression was serious but a twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

"Yeah, right," I laughed, and put the iPad down. Then off we went, right on schedule.

God Save the King

We have been enjoying the original House of Cards television series, made in the 1990s starring Ian Richardson, and not to be confused with the current American remake with Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright. The original is much better.

Recently we watched the episode from season two in which the king (admirably played by Michael Kitchen, who sounds exactly like Prince Charles) visits the poor neighbourhoods in some of the cities in England.
 

He is greeted by a rousing chorus of God Save the King played by the residents on a collection of steel drums. They did a pretty good job!

As it happened, I got spanked later that same day. Ron used, among other implements, a sturdy wooden spoon. As he paddled, I thought I detected a familiar rhythm.

"Are you playing 'God Save the King'"? I queried, referring to the television show we had just seen, and hoping he might stop to answer and give me a bit of a break.

"Could be," he replied, never missing a beat. Sure enough, he tapped out an entire verse of "God Save the Queen" (it won't be renamed "God Save the King" for a long time to come, I hope) on my poor bottom. His rendition wasn't as melodious as the steel drum version, but I added some vocal accompaniment.

Note to American readers: the tune is the same as "My Country 'tis of Thee" in case you want to hum along.

You Don't Hear That Very Often

Last weekend we had a family visit with our grandchildren. Since it was a warm day, we sat outside in the shade. Grandson found a frozen gel icepack in the diaper bag, put there to keep the children's snacks cold. He pranced around with it, pressing it against everyone's bare arms. Ron got hold of it and, when Grandson's back was turned, he pulled back the elastic waistband of the little guy's shorts and tucked the icepack inside. Grandson jumped with surprise when the cold penetrated his underwear to his bottom. He wasn't sure whether he liked the sensation or not, and ran to his mum, begging her to "get it out!"

But he was soon back for more, and it became a game. Ron would put the icepack into the back of the boy's shorts and Grandson would leap and dance about, then Mum would remove it, and the cycle would begin again, much to the boy's delight. He came running to Grandpa saying, "Put ice on my bum!"

"How often would you hear anyone say that?" remarked Son, who was watching with amusement.

More often that you might think, was my silent reply. I didn't dare catch Ron's eye. This was, after all, a vanilla afternoon.

Capturing the Moment

I was thrilled to find that last week's Red or Black post was Chrossed on the weekend. After all these years it's still gratifying when Mr. Chross notices one of my posts and singles it out for inclusion in his Spankings of the Week. My stats take a sharp upturn, and remain higher than usual for several days before settling back.

Speaking of stats, the number of pageviews I was getting dropped significantly after I added the adult content warning to my blog. My blog was no longer found in Google searches, and much of my traffic comes from Google. But then after a week or two, it once more reappeared in Google search, and now my stats are consistently higher than they were in the days before the adult content warning. Go figure!

But back to the subject of this post. I like to tell you about the spankings I receive. Trouble is, when something funny or memorable happens during a spanking, my first thought is, "I must blog about this" but then by the time the spanking is over, I have forgotten the details. This is especially true of the witty quips that Ron often comes out with. Unless I repeat the phrase over and over in my mind, it's often gone before I can record it. Spankings have a habit of driving all other thoughts out of my head, for some reason.

Ron would frown on my sitting down at the computer right after the spanking has concluded to blog about what had just transpired. To be honest, I don't feel much like sitting after one of his spankings. I try to jot down pertinent phrases on a bit of paper, but still I forget important details.

So the question is, how do I capture the moment? Setting up the laptop to record our session might be a solution, but I would be too embarrassed to ever watch it, and Ron would find it distracting. Maybe a tiny tape recorder like the ones we used at the office, hidden in my shirt, would be helpful. But they are quite expensive. I could hire a secretary to take down our memorable words in shorthand, but does anyone still know what shorthand is? How about if I stop Ron after he has spoken, then grab a pen and notebook and scribble down his words. No, scratch that. My handwriting would probably be unreadable because, knowing my husband, he would keep right on spanking.

I guess I'll just have to rely on my feeble memory to recall enough details from a spanking to create a post that is Chross-worthy.

Restoring Order

Last year I described how Ron sometimes uses the implements intended for my bottom in a random order. He does this to keep me focused as well as for his own amusement. For a laugh, I decided to help him keep our spankings orderly.

I took some cardstock from our stash of printing supplies and cut four little card tents. With a felt-tip marker I wrote the numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4 on them, then hid them in my top dresser drawer until Saturday.

When the appointed hour arrived on that day, I hurried upstairs ahead of Ron and arranged the cards in a row on the bed. I had hoped to escape to the bathroom before he came up, but as I turned to leave the room, Ron appeared in the doorway. He looked at the cards, laughed and said, "Well, now, that will keep me organized."

When I returned to the bedroom I saw four implements, each neatly placed below a card. In position number 1 was the dogging bat, a brown leather strap took position 2, the hard, black paddle was at number 3, and at number 4 was the rose paddle. And Ron stayed organized. Not once did the implements land on my bottom out of their assigned order.

When it was over, Ron gathered up the paddles and left to hang them up while I collected the cards and tucked them into the box where the smaller implements are kept. I wouldn't want to use them every time because after all, variety is the spice of life. But once in a while I will bring them out again.

Out of Order

Ron and I had quite a merry spanking session last Saturday. He had chosen four implements—a long black strap, a rattan carpet beater, a short brown leather paddle, and a black and red ping pong paddle—and arranged them on the bed for my inspection. A shiver ran down my spine when I realized what was in store.

I obediently removed my jeans and panties and got into position. Ron's usual habit was to give me several swats with each of the four implements in turn, and so he began. The leather strap seemed especially fierce that day, but the carpet beater was even worse. My attempt to dodge a swat only rewarded me with a whack on my calves and another on my thighs. The short leather paddle came as something of a relief and seemed almost gentle in comparison. The ping pong paddle too was not so bad, or maybe it only seemed that way because my bottom was warming up.

Ron cycled through the implements again, as he usually did. But as the spanking continued,  he often applied a few whacks with something that was not officially next.

"Out of order!" I cried.

"I just wanted to see if you were paying attention," Ron replied.

A few minuted later, it happened again. I got the carpet beater when it was actually the short leather paddle's turn.

"Out of order," I exclaimed again. "What's the matter? Are you getting bored?" Ron chuckled. "Maybe I should put labels on them. 1, 2, 3..."

Ron had a better idea. "No, A, B, C, D. Let's see... Ass, Bum, Caboose, Derrière. That sounds about right."

We both roared with laughter at his cleverness, and the spanking progressed in a very upbeat manner.

The Wolf

One of our favourite radio stations is known as "The Wolf", broadcasting in the Santa Rosa area of California. That's a long way from where we live, but thanks to the internet, we can enjoy it every day. It's an Oldies station and plays all the greatest hits from our teen years. When it's time for station identification, an announcer says the call letters "KWVF, The Wolf", then there's a realistic wolf howl.

Recently, during a spanking, I was protesting quite loudly, and my regular "Owww" was more prolonged than usual, and sounded more like "Ooooooowww".

"The Wolf!" Ron pronounced, then he gave his rendition of the station's mascot. "Awoooooooooooooooo."

"Sheesh! Is that what I sound like?"

"If the shoe fits..." Ron illustrated with the shoehorn.

We do have a spanking good time!

Short Memory

Ron has a fondness for our two carpet beaters. After he broke the rattan one on my bottom, I bought a replacement, but at the same time I also purchased a sturdier delrin model.

Big mistake. That thing is pure evil. I cringe when I see it laid out, ready for application on my posterior. And that's exactly the sight I saw a few weeks ago.

I hate that thing! I whined. "I much prefer the rattan one."

"Your wish is my command," Ron replied, and to my astonishment he picked up the offending implement, disappeared down the hall, and returned a minute later with the other carpet beater.

"Is that more to your liking?" asked my considerate husband.

"Oh, yes, that's much better." and my husband proceeded to make good use of the substitute.

I guess his memory of that incident wasn't as good as mine, because only two weeks later the delrin carpet beater made its appearance once more. I didn't like to complain a second time - after all, I do have my reputation as a compliant submissive to consider - so I kept silent about it.

The Assessment

Earlier this month I wrote about Ron's three new implements, and last weekend he had a chance to try them out. He had placed them in a row on the bed, and invited me to choose a fourth weapon from the toybox. In keeping with the colour scheme I selected the red and black ping pong paddle.

Ron started with the paddle, and it was more ouchy than I remembered, as we had not had a chance to play for longer than usual. Still, it felt nice and familiar.

The pink rod was next. It's about the size and shape of an 18" wooden ruler but twice as thick. It was thuddy and the impact was not at all pleasant.

"Ow!" I complained.

"Does that hurt?" Ron asked. I suspect it was meant as a rhetorical question.

"Of course it hurts, you--" I restrained myself just in time.

"Does that feel better?" Ron had put the evil implement down and was gently rubbing my sore bottom with his warm hand.

"Mmm, much better." I thought I knew where this was leading.

Ron quickly switched to the striped cane. It packed the same sort of wallop as the ruler: heavy and thuddy. In between strokes and ouches, I could hear the clink of a belt buckle being undone, and the rustle of jeans sliding to the floor.

His last implement, the loopy Johnny, nearly sent me from the room. Boy, did that ever sting! After only a few swats Ron pressed himself against me while continuing to apply the loop to the upper portion of my backside. It was a delicious combination of pain and pleasure.

"Does that hurt?" Why does he keep on asking dumb questions?

Then Ron moved away and pulled me up from the bed. "Maybe this will feel better." I knew what was expected, so I dropped to my knees and paid some close attention to a certain part of his anatomy. This was much better than the coloured cane. My husband expressed his delight in my attentions, and I was sure our afternoon delight was at an end, but it seems it wasn't.

"We can continue," Ron said, "but maybe you'd rather pick something else." He knew the new toys were a bit over the top.

"Maybe, but first let's try them again."

He picked up the pink ruler and applied it with medium effort, and this time it didn't feel too bad at all. The prior warmup and the brief respite had given my posterior a chance to adjust. It was still thuddy and heavy, but didn't hurt quite as much. The cane was similarly bearable but not pleasant. The loopy Johnny was only a little less awful. I continued to protest and Ron thought that was humorous. I could hear him chuckling.

"What are you laughing at?"

"It's your own fault. You bought these."

"They were on sale. It was a Christmas - ouch! - special."

Afterwards we both agreed that while it had been a nice gesture, the implements were just too heavy. The terrible trio would be reserved for special occasions only, and would not be a regular part of our play.

An Ill Wind

 

Around our house spankings are pretty much a routine, and while they're always enjoyable (if you like that sort of thing - and I do) they don't vary much from week to week. Every so often, however, my husband does something that surprises me.

Take last weekend, for instance. We had had some pretty bad weather with winds blowing at up to 90 kilometres an hour. On one of my trips outside, I had neglected to hold onto the storm door. It was blown open by the strong wind and the plastic door-closing mechanism at the bottom of the door snapped with the force of the blast. I was startled and Ron was quite annoyed. He had frequently reminded me to hold the door whenever it was windy outside.

I apologized profusely, then grabbed my purse and keys, jumped into the car, and within half an hour was back with a replacement part for the door. Ron repaired the damage the next day and I assumed all was well.

When the time came for our usual spanking date, I was dismayed to see the dressage whip lying on the bed along with two other less fearsome implements.

"Oh," I said. "What's the occasion?"

"You broke the door," Ron replied in a matter of fact tone.. Yikes! What was this? He never used spanking as a punishment.

"Well, be sure not to let it wrap," I reminded him. That was the part I hated most: the little tassel on the end wrapping around my right hip.

"Will if I want to," Ron stubbornly informed me. Uh oh, this wasn't going to be fun.

To his credit, my husband started off with the most benign of the implements and left the whip till last. His strokes weren't especially hard either, although they didn't have to be. The whip always hurt no matter how light the application. And yes, it did wrap several times. But I realized I probably deserved it, and did my best to accept the correction.

After it was over, I showed Ron the marks that the tip of the whip had made.

"See? That's why I don't like it."

"Good," Ron said unsympathetically.

I assured him I wasn't likely to forget to hold onto the door ever again.

Priorities

Sometimes I wonder about Ron's priorities.

Take last weekend, for instance. I was bent over the bed and he was giving my bottom some very emphatic attention with a thick leather paddle. I was past the initial, ouchy stage and was settling in to enjoy the thuddy slap of leather on flesh.

All of a sudden it stopped. "Sonofabitch!" I heard Ron exclaim.

"What's the matter?" Was my bum turning a strange colour? Had the paddle broken? Was someone watching through the window?

"The other light's out." I looked up and saw that the bedside table lamp on Ron's side was off, while the one on my side was on. Let me give you a bit of background here. A week earlier, the bulb in my lamp burned out. Ron had taken the lamp apart in order to replace the bulb and had spent a good half hour trying to put it back together again. It was only after I came to his rescue that together we succeeded in reassembling the lamp.

"Never mind about that. We'll fix it later."

He then said some unprintable words, followed by "That makes me mad!" He illustrated his point with a rapid flurry of swats on my bare bottom. Then he tossed the paddle aside and headed over to the lamp.

"Well, I guess we're finished," I said to myself. As I rubbed my bottom Ron rushed past me and headed to the basement to get a new bulb. I had to rub soothing lotion on my own bottom and put the implements away.

I dressed, went downstairs and busied myself in the kitchen. A few minutes later Ron appeared and proudly announced that the crisis was over and the bulb had successfully been replaced.

"It didn't even take you an hour and a half this time. I'm impressed." This last remark earned me a couple of hard swats. It was the least he could do after so rudely interrupting our session.

Sting and Thud

As we prepared for our regularly scheduled spanking last week Ron announced, "I need to start the potatoes at 5:00 so I can put them in at 5:30." Ron was making ham and scalloped potatoes for dinner. It was the last subject I wanted to discuss at the moment; i had other things on my mind. "I hope you can squeeze me into your busy schedule," I remarked sarcastically. "Oh, I think I can accommodate you." Then he started spanking my bare bottom briskly with a broad, light wooden paddle, as if in a race against the clock. The implement lineup was a mixture of wood and leather. Some sting and some thud - just the way I like it.      When he used the wooden shoehorn, Ron concentrated his strokes on the area just at the top of my thighs, a place that I consider especially tender, and I complained loudly. That only prompted him to apply the paddle and the other implements that followed more vigorously to that area. "Does that hurt?" "Ow! Yes!" "That's good, eh? Hurting is good!" And he continued to prove his point on my rapidly reddening backside. "Yeah, I suppose." But not really. I was wearing a short-sleeved cotton shirt with no bra underneath, and it kept riding up, partially exposing my breasts. I reached back and pulled it down to my waist. Ron immediately pushed it back up. A few minutes later, after more wriggling on my part, I felt it ride up again. I pulled my shirt down; Ron pushed it up. I got the point; he was in control. With a last flurry of very hard strokes from the big leather paddle, Ron announced, "you're done". But as I struggled to regain my composure and stand upright, he landed one final whack on my posterior. "Ow! That hurt!" I whined. "Bummer," was his unsympathetic reply. "Smart ass," I retorted, but I had to laugh.

Spider on the Wall

Last weekend Ron had an especially hard session in store for me. On the bed he had laid out his choice of implements for the afternoon: a heavy black leather strap, a delrin carpet beater (so much harder to take than the rattan one) and a short rubber paddle, textured and coloured to resemble old brick. Since I was always allowed to choose one additional implement from the toy box, I selected a thin wooden paddle made for a beach game. It had a large surface area and made a loud noise but was relatively harmless.

Ron started off with the leather strap, and for some reason my bottom felt more sensitive than usual.  It might have been because of the scented lotion I had recently rubbed on, or maybe I was just tired.

"Go easy with that thing," I cautioned.

"You like it rough," Ron countered, but he did slow down, and the whacks were a tad less forceful. He then switched to the ouchy carpet beater, which I tolerated less well, and then on to the evil rubber brick, which I absolutely hated. It was something of a relief when the beach paddle came into play. Noisy, a little stingy, but otherwise entirely tolerable.

After the warmup (such as it was!) Ron cycled through the implements again, giving me approximately twice as many swats with each one as he had in the first round. I wasn't anxious for more from the brick, and squeaked as each swat landed. I think he was using the carpet beater when he suddenly stopped and stepped back. What was he up to now?

"I see a spider," Ron announced. I felt the implement land on the bed beside me, and assumed he was joking, but then I saw him walk over to the corner of the room.

"What? I just did the dusting. I didn't see any spiders," I protested. Ron did, on the wall above his bedside table. He quickly captured it in a tissue and went into the bathroom to dispose of it. And that's when I had my chance. I seized the evil brick paddle and slipped it under the bed, then casually bent over the bed again and waited.
 
When Ron returned, it didn't take him long to notice that something was missing.


"Where's the brick?"

"Oh, is it gone?" I asked innocently. "I didn't notice." Ron didn't believe me. He looked around the room then announced, "I'm not playing anymore."

Oops! I glanced around too, pretending to be searching for the errant implement. Ron soon discovered it in its hiding place and gave me a long paddling of hard, swift strokes with the brick as punishment for my naughty deed. By then I was well warmed up and delighted in the forceful treatment.

Sometimes spiders are quite useful to have around.

Say what?

 Our spankings are always for fun, although at times I wonder exactly who is enjoying it more. Sure I like being spanked by the man I love, but do you want to know something? It hurts. I have been known to loudly protest when my bottom is being subjected to torment, and Ron is invariably quite unsympathetic. I'll let you eavesdrop on a few recent exchanges and you'll see what I mean.



H: It hurts!
R: I'm whacking you; that's why it hurts.


H: Ouch!
R: It's supposed to hurt. Isn't that the idea?


H: (While he was using the shoehorn on the crease where my thighs end and backside begins) Ooh! You've found my Achilles' heel.
R: That's not what it looks like from here.
H: I hate to think what it looks like.


R: It's wood day!
H: Ow!


H: (As the big wooden paddle is applied) Ow, that hurts!
R: Ha ha! Is that a good hurt?
H: No, not yet.


H: Ow.
R: What?
H: OW.
R: Eh?
H: OW!
R: Oh.


R: It's leather day!
H: Ow!
 

H: Ow.
R: When you're getting whacked, "ow" is good.

Another round of Gerald's Game

One of my earliest posts was about our first experience with bondage. It was fun, but it isn't really Ron's thing, so I left it up to him to make the next move. It took a while, but he finally did so during the holidays. We had been watching one of the versions of A Christmas Carol that I had recorded, and we had just gotten to the scene where the clock strikes one when our clock struck four. That's the official time for a spanking in our home, and it takes some significant event to divert Ron from his routine. Certainly not a movie that we could pause and resume watching later.

So upstairs we went, and I slipped into the bathroom to freshen up first. When I emerged and walked into the bedroom, Ron announced, "You're in for a treat." I looked down at the bed where the implements had been laid out as usual. There was the long red shoehorn, a black leather strap, the dressage whip (oh, no!) and beside the strap was a pair of wrist restraints.

They're similar to the ones in this picture except that they are silver in colour. Very elegant, actually.

"Oh," I exclaimed. Not very original, but I was so surprised I couldn't think of anything else. I never dreamed he would have decided we needed a little bondage to spice up a spanking. What could have inspired him? Was it all the hype surrounding 50 Shades of Grey? I was sure he hadn't read it, but still...

"I found them at the bottom of the toy box," Ron explained. I refrained from telling him that's where he had put them when he had consolidated all our smaller implements. I had noticed them from time to time but never brought them to his attention. I laughed nervously. This was not our usual pattern, and I was unsure how to proceed.

"How do you want me?"

"Take your clothes off," and I did while Ron watched, holding the restraints. When I was completely undressed he held out one cuff. I extended my arm and he buckled it around my wrist.

"Is that too tight? Too bad." He certainly could be dominant when he wanted to be. I held out the other arm and he fastened the buckle on the second cuff.

When he had finished I held up both arms and examined them. From each wrist dangled a couple of carabiners and a double-headed snap fastener. I jiggled my arms and the hardware clanged.

 "Just like Jacob Marley," I teased. "Is that what gave you the idea?" That was the scene in the movie we had just watched. Ron denied it, but laughed and motioned me to lie down on the bed. I did so, and wondered what he would do next. Our bed looks very similar to the one below. In fact,  I chose the headboard specifically for its bondage possibilities.

Ron knelt on the bed beside me, grasped the hardware on the first cuff and struggled to attach it to one of the metal bars. The carabiner didn't fit around the metal bar; it was too small. How had we done it the first time? Had the bars expanded in the intervening years? He fussed and fiddled, and I was unable to help because after all, I had to hold my position.

After a lengthy battle that finally ended in success, I was firmly attached to the bed. I moved both my forearms as much as I could and shook them, making a metallic clang.

"I am the ghost of Christmas Past," I warbled. My silliness was cut short by the smack of the shoehorn against my bottom.

"Now we can begin." And he did. The shoehorn felt much worse than usual on my cold bottom. Maybe it was the position I was in, stretched out flat along the bed, or maybe it was the restraints. Whatever the reason, it was hard to lie still. I wiggled and tried to escape, but couldn't.

It was a relief when Ron put the implement down, but my delight turned to dismay when I heard the familiar swish, swish of the dressage whip as it sliced through the air. Why, oh why had he chosen that evil thing? If I had thought the previous implement was hard to take, this one was unbearable. I squealed and kicked, and Ron responded by lightening the impact but increasing the speed. It felt like a swarm of wasps had invaded our bedroom to have their evening meal, and I was dinner.

Finally, the whip was replaced by the black strap, and I welcomed its harsh caress. I sighed and lifted my bottom to meet it on its way down. All too soon those caresses were replaced by a different kind; Ron's hand rubbed my punished cheeks gently but firmly. Then there was another round of each implement, punctuated by more massages between each set. After a final salute with the strap, Ron pushed the implements aside, moved my legs apart, and began some detailed exploration of my nether regions. It was sheer bliss when he placed his cool body on top of my hot cheeks and had his way with me most delightfully.

After we had both been satisfied, Ron unbuckled the cuffs from my wrists. I began to examine the  way he had attached them to the bed.

" I hope I can get them off."

"Leave them there," was Ron's command. Leave them? That could only mean one thing - there was to be another round of Gerald's Game sometime soon.

What Spot is That?

Ron often gives me a playful swat or two while we are busy doing household tasks together. The other night while I was setting the table for dinner I got a hard slap on one bottomcheek, then an equally hard one on the other. I stopped what I was doing, carefully put the cutlery down, and leaned slightly over the table. The swats continued, alternating left and right, culminating in a flurry of spanks right in the centre of my sweet spot.

"Well, that certainly hit the spot!" I exclaimed when I was sure he was done.

Ron chuckled. "I hit the B spot." B for bum or bottom, I suppose. The G spot would have to wait until later since dinner was nearly ready.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends. The holiday season has begun!

The Glove of Love

Ron and I were clearing up after dinner recently, and I made the mistake of bending over to put some dishes in the dishwasher. WHACK! I felt a sting on my bottom, then another, then a flurry of them. They weren't especially painful but I did feel some discomfort.

I straightened up, turned around and looked at Ron who had an innocent look on his face and nothing in his hands.

"What did you swat me with?" I asked. It hadn't felt familiar.

"This," he pointed to the gloves that sat on the counter. He had used them to remove his delicious homemade scalloped potatoes from the oven half ah hour earlier. "The Love Glove."

Yeah, I guess that is his way of expressing love, and I'm glad of it. But for those of you who aren't familiar with this handy kitchen aid, did you know that Ove Gloves are made of 86% Nomex, which is a flame resistant material developed by DuPont in the 60's and used by fire fighters the world over. The other 14% is Kevlar. Yes, the stuff used to make body armour!

The glove is soft and flexible, and the non-slip ridges might or might not have added to its effectiveness; I'm not sure. But it's one heavy-duty spanking implement!

Better Late than Never

Last weekend our usual spanking date was pre-empted by an unplanned trip to the doggy emergency room after one of our furkids lost an argument with a honeybee. Instead of enjoying a fun half hour with straps and paddles, we spent nearly three hours sitting on hard chairs, leash in hand, waiting. Everything turned out fine and by the next day Fang had fully recovered.

The last time a Saturday date had to be postponed, Ron never got around to planning an alternate time, but this time he surprised me. On Sunday afternoon Ron, our three furbabies and I were cuddled together on the couch in front of the television, enjoying a reality show about things that go wrong in airports. In the middle of an altercation between an irate passenger and a patient client service rep, Ron held out his wrist and tapped his watch.

"It's time," he announced.

"Oh," I replied, puzzled for a moment as to what he meant. Time for a beer? Nope, too early. It's only four o'clock. Then the penny dropped; it was our usual spanking date time. I struggled to contain my enthusiasm.

"Do you mean we are on for our date?"

"Well, we missed it yesterday, so are you up for it today?"

"I am if you are." The airport drama could wait. I was already in spanking mode.
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When I arrived in the bedroom Ron had already laid out his arsenal for the afternoon: our new carpet beater, the dogging bat, a leather paddle and a ping pong paddle. I was delighted to see the two leather implements. This was going to be an easy session (except for the carpet beater, that is.)

I quickly slipped out of my shorts and panties and bent over the end of the bed. Ron lifted my long t-shirt to clear the target area, then he began with the leather paddle. Lovely!

We settled into the usual cycle of twenty or so swats with each implement in turn. In between ouches, I slowly realized that the pattern had changed. Ron was giving me fewer strokes before moving on to the next implement. It became five with each, then four, then three, two, one. He moved quickly, tossing each implement aside after it had served its purpose. Was this a countdown of some sort? I would soon find out.

Ron stopped, put down the last paddle, and began stroking my hot cheeks with his hands. I could feel him pressed against my thigh. So that was why he was in a hurry to finish. I enjoyed his caresses for as long as I could, then turned, knelt in front of him, and unzipped his jeans.

"You had this planned all along," I remarked.

"Mm hmm," Ron agreed, then I got to work, pleased that at least I had had half a spanking, and that Ron had rescheduled our date.